This Rough Magic

by Heather Graham

  “Yes, everything is fine.”

  “Oh!” she said simply.

  Suddenly they heard a whistle. A wolf whistle that came from nearby.

  “Let’s get in, shall we?” Dustin suggested. He lowered her against the length of him, grinning. He caught her hand, and they hurried inside together. Let the young ones prowl, he thought. Let them whistle and envy him his mate.

  They entered the room, and Dustin carefully closed and locked the door behind him. He swept Carly up and over to the bed, grinning as they lay down together. He tried to kiss her, but she pressed against him.

  “Dustin!”

  He sighed. “Oh, all right. LaRue knows he can’t really arrest either of us—if it hadn’t been for my friend in Manhattan who did the research on Geoffrey, we might never have caught up with him. You know LaRue. He did hem and haw about my being in the country illegally. But then, Jon is nobility, and it isn’t wise for LaRue to get on his bad side. He’s a socially conscious man, you know.”

  Carly nodded and smiled. She did know LaRue. Her smile faded. “What about Geoffrey? Are they going to...hang him?”

  Dustin shook his head. “Geoffrey is terribly ill. He’ll be confined for life. He’ll never leave the hospital.”

  “Thank God,” Carly breathed.

  He kissed her, as if the warmth of his kiss could forever dispel the threat of the grave. “They’re getting married next month.”

  “No!” Carly pushed him away. “Jon and Jasmine? Really! How wonderful!”

  “It will be the social event of the season.”

  Carly laughed. “Yes, knowing Jasmine, I think it will be.”

  Dustin hesitated a minute. “You really don’t mind, do you? I mean... Well, you did fall in love with a count. We ran away and got married in a little church on a corner in Paris. The count comes with a castle, but I’m afraid you’ll be getting a Tudor house in Surrey.”

  She offered him a dazzling smile that touched her turquoise eyes. She played her fingers through his hair and watched him with humor and fascination.

  “First of all, I thought our wedding was wonderfully romantic. I think that ‘mister’ is a grand title. And I really think that the castle will always give me a few chills, while I absolutely adore London. We’ll be keeping my apartment in Manhattan, too. But then most of all...”

  “Most of all what?” he inquired. He lowered his head, and the tip of his tongue teased her throat.

  “Most of all, I am just exquisitely in love with the man, the wolf I met in the woods.”

  “You’ve got to be very careful of wolves in the woods,” he warned her.

  As if on cue, they heard a chorus of wolves howling, crying to the full moon.

  Carly laughed delightedly. “Your comrades are out there,” she said lightly.

  “Well, darling, this wolf doesn’t need to howl to the moon any longer.”

  “No?”

  “He’s found everything that he could ever ask, right here in your arms.”

  “Oh, Dustin, that’s so lovely.”

  “Thank you,” he told her.

  Then she saw the color change in his eyes, from amber to a heated, glowing gold. She knew the signs, knew the language of his body.

  And when he kissed her she felt his ardor, swift and sure and certain.

  The wolves continued to howl their curious serenade. But Carly scarcely heard them anymore, for the flame of her love seemed to crackle and heat and the beasts held no threat for her, for she was secure in the love of her one particular, passionate, stormy, stubborn, somewhat arrogant and still beautiful wolf. She knew now that neither of them would ever stray from the other. Love had struck too deeply. It had come like magic, against all odds, against fear and danger, and it would remain—magic.

  “Grrr...” he murmured, growling his content.

  She laughed until the quickening flames rendered her incapable of any more laughter, and she cried out her love instead.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an exclusive sneak peek at

  DYING BREATH,

  the newest thrilling novel in the

  Krewe of Hunters series

  from New York Times bestselling author

  Heather Graham.

  Available May 30, 2017, from MIRA Books.

  PROLOGUE

  The side door was open just a hair, but that little bit brought a hint of wintry air that sent a chill racing down Vickie Preston’s spine. She shivered. She moved closer to the door and found herself looking out at the day through the double-paned window.

  It was gray. Turning darker quickly as the day waned into the late afternoon.

  Nothing unexpected, since it was winter, and still…

  She felt unnerved. The wind seemed to have a keening sound about it—a sound that made her think of her granny O’Malley talking about banshees wailing.

  Or maybe it was the fact that the door was open—even though she didn’t know why it would be. But she knew it was all right. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine hadn’t even left for their night out yet. She would just ask him about the door—maybe he’d been taking something out to the car.

  Still, oddly trembling, she closed the door and locked it. As she did so, Chrissy Ballantine came sailing into the kitchen, adjusting her gloves.

  “Choose any of those little packets of food you’d like,” Mrs. Ballantine said. “You know where they all are. Noah will probably need to eat about 8:30 tonight and there’s a six-ounce bottle he can have after he eats his food. He’ll most likely fall asleep after that. The baby monitor is next to the crib, of course. The diapers are next to the crib…and well, you know the drill. You have my number, and you have George’s number, and…”

  “Chrissy, can we go, please!” George Ballantine said, coming up behind his wife, slipping an arm around her waist. “My dear, as we know, Vickie is the most amazing babysitter in the world and if you torture her to death with commonsense details, she’ll leave us!”

  Vickie Preston smiled at them both.

  God bless the Ballantines!

  They were both in their midforties; Noah was, truly, a miracle child for them.

  It had never been easy for her, Chrissy had once told Vickie. It seemed like a gift from above that she had finally gotten pregnant again. Fertility drugs before—and now? Just a miracle.

  Yes, Noah was a miracle.

  And before…

  Even though they had little Noah, tears often sprang to Chrissy’s eyes when she referred to an earlier time—and the son they had lost. After all their first efforts twenty years ago, they had finally had a child: Dylan. Dylan had been great, a son any parent could adore. Good in school, good in sports, but more—a great sport himself, happy when he won, able to shrug it off and smile when he or his team lost.

  A year shy of his eighteenth birthday, Dylan had been killed by a drunk driver. His death had nearly killed his parents as well; it had devastated a community. George Ballantine had left his high-tech job in New York City—too many memories—and relocated in Boston. And while his wife had still been in mourning, she’d suddenly found out that she would have the second child she had always wanted.

  Vickie knew all about the Ballantines because the families knew each other through church. Chrissy Ballantine had called Vickie’s mom, and Vickie had been interviewed. She had been in awe when she’d heard how much she could make, just babysitting a sweet child. And while she was very happy about Noah, she also felt terrible for the couple, and she thought about the young man she saw in pictures about the house—Dylan Ballantine—often enough. She was now just about the age he had been when he died, almost eighteen. She found herself wondering what his life had been like—he’d been popular, certainly. Had he dreamed about college, being on his own, the places he might go, the things he might do in life?

  Dylan was gone, but it was just sixteen months and three days ago that Noah Ballantine had made his stunning and miraculous arrival into the world.

  For the first si
x months of his life, Chrissy had refused to leave his side. Her psychiatrist had finally convinced her she would smother her poor child, herself and her marriage if she didn’t learn to trust someone. Vickie was always grateful they had chosen her.

  “Yes, yes, of course, we can go,” Chrissy said. “I’ll just look in on the baby one more time, though, I know, of course Vickie will be fine.”

  “Vickie will be fine—whether you go stare at Noah again or not!” George said firmly.

  Vickie could easily understand how precious the child was to both Chrissy and George. She loved the baby herself, as well as both of the Ballantines—and loved babysitting for them. They had a great old historic house that was one of the few listed on the National Historic Register and still a private residence in the midst of the explosion of Boston as a city. When she babysat in the afternoon, she would walk part of the Freedom Trail and, despite the fact she was a city native, still marvel at the Old South Meeting House, the Granary Burial Ground and other local wonders.

  Her own house was old, but not nearly so old—or distinguished—as the Ballantine house. It had been built in 1790, combining the Georgian and Federal styles, and the architecture itself was amazing. The house was on most walking tours of the city. It had hosted Samuel Adams at one time, along with John Hancock and a number of other Revolutionary notables. Her home was nice—mid-1800s—but it had been built as apartments and was an apartment building to this day. Nothing like this.

  “Oh, but his clothes!” Chrissy said. “I need to show Vickie where everything he might need can be found.”

  “Vickie knows where everything Noah has can be found. Details—you’re going to drive the poor girl crazy!” George said.

  “Darling, I don’t get crazy on details,” Chrissy protested. “Okay, I do,” she admitted, looking at Vickie. “But—”

  “I’m fine. I don’t mind details,” Vickie assured her.

  From his play area in the living room, Noah suddenly let out a demanding cry. Chrissy Ballantine immediately jumped and turned to go to him.

  Her husband caught her arm. “Vickie is here now. She’ll get Noah. And we’ll head out to our dinner with my boss, huh?”

  “Yes, of course, of course.” Chrissy smiled at Vickie, hugged her impetuously and allowed her husband to steer her to the kitchen door.

  A blast of cold air swept in; the house didn’t have a garage, but rather a porte cochere, or covered drive, once a carriage entry. It was small and tight to the house, allowing for one car. But then they didn’t need more than one car where they were in Boston. Public transportation on the T was great.

  George Ballantine looked back at Vickie and winked. She smiled and waved and headed to the door to close and lock it behind them.

  But Chrissy was suddenly back, rapping on the window. “The alarm!” she said.

  “I’ve got it!” Vickie assured her. And she keyed in the alarm.

  As she did so, she remembered that she had forgotten to ask George Ballantine why the side door had been open. She rekeyed the alarm to Off and threw open the door.

  But their silver Mercedes had already driven into the night.

  She heard Noah let out another wail and she quickly locked the door and keyed in the alarm again before hurrying back to the grand parlor.

  She wasn’t really sure why any kid would be crying or wanting to leave this play space. His “playpen” was constructed to cover an area that was a good fifteen-by-fifteen feet long and wide. He could crawl onto his scooter, play with his toddler walker—or any number of the amazing toys in the carefully constructed play box in the play area.

  Despite being spoiled rotten, Noah Ballantine was a sweet and affectionate baby. He had taken to Vickie right away, which had helped her earn the position. She adored him in turn.

  He wasn’t screaming or crying out with his few words when she reached the parlor; he was staring into what appeared to be blank space. And then he began to laugh—the way he did when they watched Little Baby Bum videos and clapped and played.

  His interaction with blank space made Vickie curious—and uncomfortable. She told herself that she was just spooked. She silently cursed herself for not asking George Ballantine about the open door—he would have said something to reassure her.

  “What ya doing, my little love?” Vickie said, stepping over the playpen gate and hunkering down by the baby. He truly was a sweetheart. He looked at her and gave her a brilliant smile and clapped his hands.

  He was blessed with huge hazel eyes and a thatch of rich sandy hair and couldn’t possibly have been a cuter boy.

  He clapped his hands again.

  “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker man! Bake me a cake as fast as you can!” she said. “Roll it, and poke it, and mark it with a B, and then put it in the oven for my baby and me!”

  He responded with more laughter and smiles, and then looked aside again—as if someone else was there.

  “Okay, okay, creeping me out there, kid!” Vickie said. “And, by the way—P.U.! You stink-um, dinkum!” she told him. “You need a diaper change.”

  She swept him up, climbed over the playpen gate and headed for the stairs.

  She stopped halfway there, hearing a tapping at the window. It seemed that her heart caught in her throat.

  Just branches in the wind, branches in the wind…

  But if she didn’t check it out, she’d scare herself all night. Cuddling Noah to her, she headed to the window and held her breath as she drew back the drapery.

  “As I expected!” she said, keeping her voice filled with fun—she wasn’t about to scare the baby. “Branches! Rude! How rude of them to tap at the window like that.”

  Noah thought it was all great.

  “Up the stairs we go!”

  Noah’s room was a fantasy playland. His crib and dressing table, changing table, floor mat and toy chest were all done up in a jungle motif in pastel blues with an elephant theme. She grabbed a diaper and the wipes and made quick work of the change.

  She felt her cell phone buzzing and answered it quickly, balancing Noah in the crook of her left arm. Her mom always called to make sure she was okay. Vickie was always afraid if she didn’t answer quickly, her mom would have cops at the door. But it wasn’t her mom, it was Roxanne Greeley, one of her best friends.

  “So, the cats are gone, eh? Party, party?” Roxanne asked her.

  “No parties. I’m earning my money for college.”

  Roxanne giggled. “I know you—just teasing. If I were to head over for a wild and wicked party, that would be the two of us doing our toenails once the little guy fell asleep. But…”

  “But what?” Vickie asked.

  “Hank Fremont does think you should spend more time with him. I overheard him talking about his brother getting him some beer and then him heading over to surprise you,” Roxanne said. “Some of the guys he hangs with were egging him on. Telling him he’s the coolest dude in the school and if he’s dating you, well, you should be cool, too.”

  “Not to worry. I informed Hank this is serious work for me. College is serious for me.”

  “Ah, well, one day maybe you’ll be president of the country! And then I’ll have wild, wicked parties doing my toenails with the president! Anyway, I warned you.”

  “I told him not to come. He won’t. So I’ll see you tomorrow? Shopping, right? We’re going to the mall. Sushi at the ridiculously good place in the food court?”

  “We’re on.”

  Her phone was ringing again as she finished with Roxanne; it was Hank. She shook her head, smiled at the baby, and answered.

  “I’m on my way, my love,” Hank said, trying to make his voice husky—deeply, manly rich. Vickie shook her head at the baby with exasperation. He loved it.

  “Don’t be. I told you—I won’t let you in,” Vickie said. “Hank, this is serious for me. You need to be more serious. If you don’t hit a few books instead of beer bottles, not even your athletics will get you into college.”

 
“Hey, we’re only young once! I already have beer and a pizza. Come on, that’s a super-cool house. I’ll be there—”

  “Come, and I’ll call the cops,” she threatened.

  “Bitch!”

  “I mean it, Hank.”

  “Well, you know, we could be over.”

  “We will be eventually. Maybe now is a good enough time.”

  Vickie hung up, aggravated, and set her phone on the baby’s dresser.

  They’d been through this before. He’d apologize tomorrow. He’d beg her to stay with him. But everything she had said was true.

  “Maybe this is the right time to end it, huh, Noah?”

  Noah laughed and clapped.

  And then they both heard a thump. Noah’s eyes widened; Vickie jumped.

  It had come from the attic—she was certain.

  Now she did freeze. For a moment, she couldn’t even remember to shake it off quickly for the baby.

  She waited. Nothing more.

  Had a branch fallen on the house?

  Or had Hank Fremont not taken her refusal seriously? Could he possibly be there already, up in the attic, or outside? Maybe, like in the movies, he’d actually called her from inside the house or right outside the house!

  No, he’d been a jerk tonight, but usually he kind of listened to her. But he was a high school senior surrounded by a few guys who were taking a long time to reach anything that resembled maturity.

  No. Hank would not be that big a jerk. But the house was closely surrounded by big trees.

  “That’s it—a branch,” she managed to say at last, realizing that her hold on Noah was tight—and right when he looked at her, his little face puckered into what might have turned into a cry.

  He smiled instead. “Bick-bick!” he said. It was his name for her. He was beginning to talk—sometimes his words made sense. He was good with mama, dada, bye-bye, and kit-kat. The Ballantines didn’t have pets, but Noah had a great stuffed kitten that sang songs and told nursery rhymes and he knew to ask for his kit-kat when he wanted the toy.

  “Let’s go back downstairs,” she murmured. “Maybe we’ll look at your food packs and you can point at one and we’ll choose your late-night snack that way!”